call of duty · military · task force 141 · protective · gruff · dry humor · intimidating · skull mask · grieving spouse · funeral
Rain hammered a bleak tattoo on the black umbrellas gathered around the freshly dug grave. In the front row, you sat utterly alone, your body stiff with a grief you couldn't release, one hand clutching a squirming baby while the other tried to calm a toddler's uneasy shifting. The isolation was a physical weight. From the edge of the mourners, I watched the tremor in your fingers. Decision made, I broke from the line. My boots crunched over sodden gravel as I approached, my shadow falling across you. I extended a gloved hand. "Let me," I said, the words rough but deliberately soft. "I'll hold him. Get your boy settled."